


Love in Ink, Stained My Heart

by jetblacklilac



Series: Lifetimes of Devotion [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern Royalty AU, Reincarnation AU, Soulmate AU, i dont edit my fics and it shows, its a bit sad but fluff all the way, siri why is this so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:57:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: The Starks are the royal family in the North. Everyone knows of their history, the names of their ancestors, the dates of the rebellions they've led. But no one knows better than Jon, the museum's esteemed archivist. Sansa knows he not only knows but he remembers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this story will be one of my favorite already, i can feel it. tell me what you think of it. (mind u i'll add more when i have the time)

Davos came into his office with his nervous foot tapping, his fingers drumming against his thigh and Jon knew precisely why his boss is here. “Morning Jon.” He chirped as he sat down on one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk.

He barely hides his chuckle as he nods. “Yes, morning to you too sir-“

“-So, she’ll be arriving precisely ten am. You, Samwell, and I shall greet her at the lobby alright?” The nervousness just radiated from him that it was a comical sight.

“Yes sir, as you’ve mentioned form the previous unceremonious visits here.” Jon gently points out. It’s not that he isn’t nervous but seeing his own boss be a vessel of nerves is almost contagious right now. He has to do the right thing. He gave up on translating the Italian prose carefully laid out before him. The centuries old collection of poems are written in ancient parchment that it required a steady hand to life and not break them, losing the puzzle piece

He stroked his grey beard, nearly covering half of his cheeks and gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, lad, it’s just I want this to go well. I mean it’s not every day the Northern princess calls and requests for a private audience.” He says, his tone shifting into a higher pitch. But he shakily inhaled and exhaled a big breath, then patted his knee.

“Well we aren’t called Winterfell’s National Musuem for nothing.” Jon lamely jested, knowing how a bad joke tends to calm one’s nerves.

Lifting the coal blazer away from his watch, Davos’ eyebrows rise in panic. “Oh, she’ll be here at any moment. Get your arse up, Snow!” He said, grabbing the scholar by his arm and quite literally dragging him outside of his office. Their leather shoes echoes on the tiled floor as they descended down the stairs, wide and wooden, curling down until they arrive at the lobby.

Davos groaned. “And who gave them permission to crowd like a bunch of pigeons?” He gestured to the site of the employees flocking at the large arched entrance, as they chatted with one another, and excitement is in the air. “I thought I paid you to do your jobs?” He demanded but he said it with a friendly smile, the type that can never intimidate anyone. That’s his nature, Jon supposes.

Val rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, sir, we humans are curious beings. And besides, I’d like to see the lady who’s donating _that_ much amount of money to our pockets!” She explained and lifted her hands in the air when Davos glowered at her.

“I heard she’s the most beautiful woman alive!” Tormund add in with a wink, not really helping their cases but all the more amusing for everyone else.

Jon spotted his best friend, the one constant person in his life since college. He walked over to him, biting the inside of his cheek, as he sees Sam stammering through a conversation with his crush, the worst kept secret really.

“Gilly, mind if I excuse Sammy here?” He asks the brunette.

She nods her head, her caramel eyes have glitters in them that it was almost sickening to watch them flirt in such a horrible and obvious way. “Of course, Jon.”

“I nearly told her I like turtles. By the gods, Jonny why would I _say_ that?” Sam whined, shaking his head.

Jon laughs. “It’s because you’re in love, Sam. But hey maybe she also likes turtles.” He replies, patting his shoulder before stirring him to the front of the crowd. Now, he sees the onslaught of security marching in the museum. They all dressed in classic suit, wore dark tinted shades, and were so similar he had a hard time finding any difference amongst the men.

He looks to his left and saw Davos being interviewed by the local news. He had his hands waving in the air, the staple friendly smile, and he just knows his boss has the energy rivalling a rocket before lift-off.

“Here she is!” One of the reporters screeched and cameras and their crew parted as the sleek limo is parked.

A tall blonde woman wearing the same security issued suit opens the door.

And out came truly, the most beautiful creature Jon has ever seen. Well of course Jon is familiar with the Starks; they are the royal family so they’re always in the news, splashed about on the newspaper, and one minor thing they do and it’s news for weeks on end. But seeing one in person? It was like meeting the gods themselves.

Her fiery locks are stylishly braided and coiled in braids, pinned on her head but a portion of it runs down her back. She wore a humbling spruce knee length dress that showcased her long legs, feeling like it could run for miles.  A snowy princess styled trench coat, its ends fluttering in the wind. The smile is cordial, practiced as is her wave to the cameras but she didn’t have time to answer the question thrown at her feet.

Seeing her walk towards them, Jon had an inane feeling that she’s walking to _him_ , a practical nobody. If he focuses clear enough, he could see a gleaming crown on her head, fit for the royalty that she is.

 _Why does it feels like I’ve seen her before?_ He pondered. In a flash, everything changed. They were at some hall of an unnamed castle, her dress was different, heavier, and longer but her lovely face was all the same. He’s seated upon a great throne. He can feel the giddiness bubbling in his blood at the sight before him. And when he shifted, he felt a _crown_ on his head like he’s a king.

Jon blinks, cold sweat dotting the sides of his head. He gazes at the princess again and saw how her crystal eyes gazed at him for a moment, a year, or even a century and it all felt the same.

When she stopped in front of them, the blonde shadow closed the door and whispered something on her earpiece.

“Miss Stark, it’s an honour to have you in our institution!” Davos greets with a grin.

“The honour is mine.” Everyone has a northern accent in these parts but something about her refinery in their shared accent made it more appealing to listen to her. “May I have a tour of this fine place?” She asks as though she needed to do that. She’s a princess for crying out loud, all she needs to do is verbalise her request and the entire North would try to fulfil her wish.

“Of course, Sam here is our best scholar. He knows every section like the back of his hand.” The elderly man boasts and rips Sam from Jon’s grasp.

The brunette is fidgeting with his fingers and Jon knows his knees will be shaky at most. “I-I do know almost ev-everything here. Le-let the tour begin!” He announces in a tremulous voice. The rest of the employees formed a loose circle around hr but not too close for her security is vigilantly observing them.

Jon remained with Davos. “So I should prepare everything then?” He points out.

“Yes, yes, and do try to talk and appear friendly, Jon. Think of her as one of your mates.” Davos orders and pats his back. “But none of your mates have a real crown, estates to their names, or bodyguards watching their every move.”

He quietly goes to his office and fixes everything so it might appear professional. Not at all did he spend an entire night here because Val needed some help with the artefacts they recently discovered. An excavation in which Tormund led, in the barren frozen lands beyond the city proper, they found a huge amount of writing written by Wildling; their kind has been extinct for centuries and they have a connection to that lost time.

They were experts at deciphering the writings that are from its source, the Old Tongue as it has been said. But they needed Jon to do the carbon data to exact its era and such.

A knock came on his door and he nearly spat out his coffee. “Yes, yes enter.” He called out. His hands automatically adjusting his onyx tie until it didn’t feel like a noose around him.

It was Sam with Sansa and her menacing bodyguard. “I’m leaving them to you alright? Don’t worry Miss Stark, he’s one of our top men, he’s the best for what you’re asking for.” He says.

Sansa stood in front of his office, shed of the coat so he can see the dress has sleeves resting on her upper arms. She turns and her porcelain neck is even more enticing at his proximity. “Brienne, you can sit on the couch.” She says, soft as silk.

Brienne stiffly nods, shoots Jon an icy glare and plops down on his maroon couch.

“You must be wondering why I’m here.” She mused with a shy smile. It wasn’t the same smile she gives to the public but a more genuine one. Her beam dented her cheeks with dimples and by the light of day streaming through the laced curtains, he could see the faint freckles on her face.

Jon realized he had been staring at her for quite a time now. “I, uh, the museum is one of the landmarks in Winterfell. I assumed you want to go sightseeing in history.” He answers, well, stutters like Sam did. “Please sit.” He gestured to the empty chairs in front of his desk.

“History is a funny thing. They say it ends so the events can be discussed in history classes but for me, it’s an on-going experience.” Sansa muses, her eyes tracing the stacked papers on his desk. “Past and present don’t have any difference to me. So no I did not visit to see things and people I have memorized since I was six.”

He leans back on his luxury chair. “Is it because you’re a princess then? I mean your family’s roots go _way_ back, in fact I had a college paper about the Stark dynasty.” He recalls. His professor then, Sir Mormont, found it to be an excellent piece of work and had it published. Turns out, Jon got the highest grade the old bear has ever given.

There was that smile again. It sent tingles down his spine and the feelings. of seeing it other than today returned. _Have we met before?_ He wanted to ask but it was the dumbest question. He would remember if he saw one of the royal family out and about, smiling at him like he hung the moon in the night sky.

“Have you? I would like to read it if I can.” Her long lashes brush against her cheeks and Jon knew this is the most enchanting view he has ever seen. “But the real reason I’m here is because of this.” She signals Brienne and the blonde places a leather journal on his desk.

“May I have a look?” Jon asks and when she nods he carefully extracts papers front he journal. He scans them and sees how they’re in forms of letters. “What is this may I ask?” He inquires out of politeness.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “These are the love letters my hundred times great grandmother wrote to her love. You know him, he’s Aegon Targaryen?”

Jon sits up straighter at the mention of those names. Of course he knows them, everyone practically grew up hearing their tragic story. And it is one of the most memorable events in their history. Mostly because of how emotional it is and he knows the consistent gloom people have upon remembering it. “Sansa wanted to marry him but it turns out he died fighting the undead and she vows to never marry again. It’s a depressing story if I may say.”

She laughs. “It really is, Mr Snow. It was really hard, the years she spent just wondering what she would do if she saw him again, the regret of not saying “I love you” just one time.“ She shakily exhales, the tears in her eyes made the blue resemble a troubling lake with too many ripples. “I’m sorry but my heart goes out to her.” She mumbles.

He offered her his handkerchief to which she accept, dabbing the corners of her eyes. “I do admire her. She has one of the greatest impacts and influence throughout Northern history. She holds the title for longest reign for a monarch.” He says in consolation. Now that he thinks of it, there is such a palpable facial resemblance of Sansa and her namesake. As though the queen has been alive for thousands of years and miraculously maintained her famed youthful beauty and is sitting before him, prim and proper as any royal should be. 

He snorts at that thought. 

“So you’ll accept my donation to the museum?” Sansa tentatively asks.

“I should be giving this to Sam or even Val. They’re better than me at this department-“

“-No!” Sansa burst out. She composes herself, ignoring the man’s shock and smiled once more. “I-I want _you_ to _read_ those letters. Go over them and it is a vital piece to her history, this love affair that failed before it even began.” 

“Alright, Miss Stark. And I’ll call you when I have reached a verdict.” He didn’t think much on her reactions, assuming she has an emotional connection to her ancestor.

She brightens up at his words. “I shall you again soon, I take it?” She points out. There was an unexplained excitement to her voice, a jump in her words.

 _Wow she really likes museums._ Jon thinks because they both know they can discuss this through a phone call. Yet who was he to deny the princess anything? If she would like it, he’d personally give her another tour of the museum. Maybe throw in some useless fun facts that he and his colleges have gathered in the years of working together.

“As soon as I finish up assessing these letters.” Jon promises with a small smile.

Her eyes lit up and she gingerly lifted one of the photo frames from the rest. “Ghost is looking adorably beastly these days.” She giggled.

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “How’d you know his name?” He speculated, knowing full well he hadn’t mentioned his pet in the duration of their talk.

“Oh uh, I’m guessing actually. He is a huge dog with white fur.” Sansa explains herself rather quickly. He can hear the fondness in her tone but it was normal, almost everyone loves dogs upon the sight of them.

 _That's odd most people would think his name is marshmallow or a type of cloud._ Perhaps it is true that Sansa is intelligent for her first guess is correct. 

“I call him Ghost because he rarely makes a sound when he walks. The utter devil he is.” Jon mutters, making her laugh. Sansa, a woman so far out his league and she's so _beautiful_ is laughing at his lame joke like it's actually funny. “I’ll call you when I’m finished.” He says in finality because if it was up to him, he would stay here forever with her.

Sansa nods. “Yes and I’ll visit you to hear your discoveries.” She says in a tone that implied more and surprisingly, he found himself more curious to her. Standing up, she holds her hand in front of her. "Goodbye, Mister Snow." 

When they held hands, there was an undeniable sense of warmth flowing in his veins in the midst of the winter season. He could almost taste it on his tongue, how cozy her touch it. Images floated through his head; him in front of redhead strikingly similar to the princess in front of him but the woman wore a white dress like it was their wedding, they sat in front of a hearth of some lost castle, she sews and sings a lullaby while he watches her with all the contentment in the world. 

 _But I'm not married..._ He fleeting thought but they felt so  _real. "Oh uh,_ sorryabout that. Yes, I-I'll see you then _."_ He releases her hand and ignores how there's a tinge of regret in that action, like he didn't  _want_ to let go every again.  _Yeah and her bodyguards would tackle me to the ground._

 She smiles like a secret rests on her tongue. "We shall indeed."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Brienne opens the door for Sansa as they both exited the office. “Is he the one, ma’am?” She asks, keeping her voice to a whisper in case a living soul might hear them.

Sansa spins around, her blue floral dress follows her actions. She heaves a sigh and the look on her face, any person could tell she’s quite fond of the topic of their conversation. “Yes, I found him finally! Hopefully he’ll remember once he reads those letters.” She sighs, running her fingers down her hair. “All these lifetimes without him have been torment, Bri. It’s either I didn’t meet him or he’s already married or worse, he died before I could reach him. Oh you think he’s with Ygritte again in this one?” She asks, her voice instantly losing the initial enthusiasm and is now replaced with dread and sadness.

“I don’t know, ma’am. I could run a background check on him if you like.” The blonde suggests.

She waves her hand in the air. “That won’t be necessary. I know my love like I know myself. I-I just hope the gods have mercy on us this time.” She confesses, her fingers playing with the ends of her hair. "He knows it's me."

"How so, ma'am?"

She walks alongside her bodyguard, her stature significantly smaller than Brienne's and an odd pair as they walk along the fourth floor. "When our hands touched, his eyes just flashed. And I know his soul recognizes me but his mind is so deep in this reality that it doesn't occur to him  _yet."_  

At seeing Jon, she had to physically resist in throwing herself at his arms, to tighten her grip on him. It's a miracle she hasn't cried at the sight of him. Gods know she cried rivers for him already, all those years ago when the news of his death is fresh and the wounds to her heart is too new for her to handle. But now, she wanted to cry out of gladness in seeing him in the flesh, alive and well. She had to remind himself his thoughts aren't connected like hers is, or just as refreshed. Oh how the gods love their little games with people. 

“Telling him would most likely freak him, I guarantee that madam. This is a smart way to reveal yourself to your soul mate.” Brienne estimates. She nearly laughed at the image of the brooding man being scared out of his mind if he found out that way.

Sansa fondly smiles, her cheeks slightly hurting by how happy she is but she doesn’t care. “He taught me love. It’s fair game I return the favour.”

 


	2. I Think I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams have always been a mystery to people. What causes it? Why do our minds create complex stories when we're unconscious? Jon would do anything to have those answers, to explain why he had the best dream of all after reading letters of a thousand years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it obvious i enjoy this story too much? i couldn't do anything else except think about this!! comments and kudos are genuinely appreciate

Jon basically ripped off his beanie the moment he arrived at his favourite café. It’s found about two blocks from his apartment and The Wall is basically a reward for himself for running ten blocks _and_ a round or two around the park. The tiny silver bell jiggled in noise to alert his presence but no one minded; the young teens huddled beside the large bay windows or the adults with their dark coffees, faces scrunched up as they read the newspaper.

He smiled at his usual barista, a loquacious redhead with freckles peppered all over her pale face and a small adorable gap on her front teeth. “The usual, if you will Ygritte.” He kindly requests, and he takes his wallet from his windbreaker and giving the appropriate money.

“Your wish is my command, Mr Snow. One grande café Americano coming right up!” The barista says. “So I’ve seen the news yesterday. You met up with the fancy princess eh? What was she like? I heard she’s a damn snob.”

A flare of anger pooled in the pit of his stomach at that outrageous notion. From their interaction not long ago, he’d say she’s a nice young lady. A shy and civil one yes but she would never be aloof. “She seems nice.” He bit out, trying to restraining but snapping like a dog.

Ygritte shrugs, loose copper tendrils brushing against her cheeks and nearly covering her brightened eyes. “Those Starks think the world revolve around ‘em. They don’t know a hard day’s work, always up there in their fancy castle with jewels and designer clothes.” She complains with a clear tone of disgust.

Jon furrowed his eyebrows in utter irritation. He doesn’t have the same assumption as this cute girl does because he actually met one of them. If he has to be honest, he has a crush on Sansa by the end of their first meeting. _First among the many,_ a wormy voice teased.

An elderly gentleman coughed. He was behind Jon and slapped his newspaper with the back of his hand. “Other people would like a cup of coffee too son.” He gruffly reminds him.

“Sorry for that Mr. Karstark.” Ygritte apologized.

“And before you go boy, I’d like to tell the _both_ of you the Starks are important to the North. They’re traditional and they still hold power in the parliament.” The grumpy man lectured with an emphasized wagged finger to them.

“Yes, sir.” Jon said with a chagrin smile.

He walked to the counter and thanked for his drink. When he arrived at his apartment, the one he shares with his best friend, it was empty. Perhaps Sam is still sleeping or went to their favourite bakery. He placed his coffee down on the coffee table and yelped when he felt gentle bite on his sneakers.

“Why is it I’m _always_ surprised by your entrance, boy? Should’ve let you in the SWAT or something.” Jon says against Ghost’s neck as he peppered his face with kisses,  chuckling as his dog licked his face, its rough pads is nothing compared to his busy beard. “You can’t drink coffee, boy sorry.”

After taking a bath and changing into a sweatshirt, Ghost follows his master as he enters his miniature office. Jon’s pet jumps on the sofa, curling up near one of the arms and closed his eyes as he began to sleep.

He rolled his eyes at that. “Lazy beast.” He lovingly murmurs before sitting on the leather luxury chair. In the corner of his eye, he caught the gifted journal Sansa has given him.

_I-I want_ _you_ _to_ _read_ _those letters. Go over them and it is a vital piece to her history, this love affair that failed before it even began._

“Why me?” He asked to no one in particular. Surely she couldn’t be that confident in his skills or trusted him before they even met. Seeing as how he’s not busy at the moment, he extracts the very first one but he has to be cautious seeing as how the paper is fragile.

_Littlefinger has been swiftly dealt with. It is the definition of justice to see my little sister turned assassin of sorts, to wield the same knife against the traitor’s throat. Seeing the blood pour down his snivelling body, for him to beg for mercy as the life in him leaves his body, satisfaction fuelled my veins but I couldn’t smile. A lady, a queen, shouldn’t show gladness at the sight of such violence._

_Bran had informed me on how Jon threatened Littlefinger when he requested for my hand in marriage, a supposed sensible reward since he aided us to win my home back. My little brother is a shell, life’s joy escapes him and the responsibility of the world rests on his young shoulders. But oh how a ghosting smile surfaced on his lips when he said that Jon nearly choked the life out of the murderer of our father, the lone cause of a war because Mother refused his hand in marriage._

_I smiled for the both of us._

_How would my brooding brother react to this news? How would he act when I tell him our sister wears masks of different people, that violence is as natural as the breaths in her lungs and she has a list of people she means to put into the earth, to drench the soil of their blood? He wouldn’t believe me at first but he has always trusted my word above anything else. There is still a small part of him that is naïve, hopeful and I will do whatever it takes to keep that wining silver light bright in his dark soul._

_I have heard hushed whispers utter along the castle walls. Of how my brother is a god, a man who shouldn’t even be alive because of his resurrection. He has defeated death with Longclaw, a wildling once has told his friends near a campfire, perhaps he is the only match for the Night King._

_But to me, when we reside in the solar, he is nothing but a tired man. At times I let his head rest on my thighs, my fingers combing through his thick messy inky curls, like a river passing through my fingertips. There is a heat to him, unlike what my assumption of what a dead man would be, cold to the touch. Or was it the fire near us? I can never tell the difference between a blazing fireplace and his hand curling on my elbow, how he would tuck strands of hair behind my ear, or a swipe of his palm on my clothed shoulder when a council meeting is announced to be finished._

_Since we were young I have always been the best at sums, a skill that everyone praised me for but they all overemphasized on my beauty, on how I am fit to be a king’s queen. Jon never saw me as that. He saw me as a Stark, a queen in my own name._

_I laugh at a random memory. I smile each time he would softly call my name, not Alayne, but my true name, and ask for help in the accounts of grain and such. He trusts me enough to help him when he would rather prefer to carry the world on his shoulders. Someone trusts me more than being a pretty face, or to pull the strings because of my great name. No he knows I am more than capable. And I love him for it._

_Sansa Stark._

Without a moment’s hesitation, he unfolded the second letter with his heart beating fast.

_I do not know how to feel about the revelation Bran has announced at the Great Hall. Jon is now my cousin?_

_Though I have obeyed Mother in casting him out in our youths, which everyone thought of him as a bastard, the one physical evidence on Father’s honour, there has always been kindness and pleasing civility between us. It grew into an appealing friendship when I ran into his arms at Castle Black. Oh how I wept at his shoulder, the feel of him, the utter comfort that I haven’t felt in so long. And he didn’t deny me a shoulder to cry on, the sort of company I have prayed for when I was a captive in Kings’ Landing. I have finally decided he is a brother to me, the lone family I have left in this grey and cruel world._

_With all the nights I have slept in the finest silks in the Red Keep and the Eyrie, nothing is more comforting than to be at my brother’s side, curling up to his heat like a cat. In Castle Black, their blankets make my legs itch, their pillows are lacked stuffing but none of these matter because when I rise from my short and narrow bed, I would see my brooding brother, looking over his men. Such a sight has never failed to bring warmth in my veins, to have someone to share the day with._

_But a cousin he is to me now. Oh how the gods love to take and take and never consider the hurt that mar our skins and make our hearts bleed a little more._

_What is a difference between a brother and a cousin? Should I change my views of him because he has the blood of the dragon? I couldn’t bear to do such a thing. My weary heart transcends hatred, especially to family, to my lonely and hurting Jon. I would’ve handled the news better if not for his parentage._

_The Targaryen in him comes from his ancestors that scorched up the North once, forcing Torrhen to bend his knee because of Aegon I; its history anyone from the North knows. His other family is infamous for their incest, their black blood, and for their complete determination for glory and power._

_But Jon isn’t like that! He is kind, brave, gentle, and strong. All those qualities Father once promised my husband would be; Jon effortlessly exudes it. Yes he has the strongest claim for the iron throne now because of this but he also has the blood of Winterfell in him that won out the expected blonde locks and bright eyes any Targaryens should have._

_I know Jon wouldn’t want to be king. He only wants a home, a family to love, a tomorrow to wake up to. And that is Winterfell for him._

_He is the only person I trust in the entire world, the only person who has the ability to bring me comfort with the mere sight of him at my side. I can offer him my support, my undying loyalty, if it means anything to him._

_Jon and I are lost souls, through the wrongs of our lives, our roads connected once more. I will never stray from this path ever again, not if it means he will be with me through it all._

_Sansa Stark_

Jon exhaled a heavy breath. His hands were shaking and he wasn’t sure if it was out of excitement or something _else._ The most peculiar feeling flooded in him, like he truly understands these words from long ago.

Was it because he has thoroughly combed through the Stark dynasty? Is it because he is an expert of the North’s rebellions against the South’s demand for it to kneel to foreign rulers? It would be the logical reason but he swam through the ideas in his head, knowing there was something missing, a piece so far out of his reach and his hands are slick with sweat.

The day went passed without a hitch, other than that constant eccentric feeling at the back of his mind. His heart skips tow beats each time he recalls one of the many letters the deceased queen has written to her cousin. He didn’t bother telling Sam about it.

How can he when he can’t even explain it himself? _Hey I have a weird connection to Queen Sansa I. It feels like I was her lover because you know, I share the name with him. Isn’t that silly?_ Sam would call him mental with a loud laugh, he knows it.

“Maybe she’s just that good of a writer. I mean people in the medieval age had fancy wordings. Yeah that could be it.” Jon muttered to himself, pacing around his bedroom.

Ghost, at the corner of it, merely stared at him with those rare ruby red eyes. It was as though the dog was trying to say _can you just sleep? I’d like to do that too you know._

“Yup, I’m going crazy. I’m imaging a conversation with my bloody dog. Oh gods.” He moaned out and flopped on his bed. Eventually, he curled up in the sheets and began to snore. To which Ghost seemed grateful for as he lowered his head on his paws and began to sleep as well.

He couldn’t escape this inane feeling in his heart. He dreamt of a redhead sleeping beside him, oh it was such a sight to see her fiery locks halo around her like some mystical angel decided to rest on his bed. At first he thinks it’s Ygritte, the barista, but when the beauty opened her eyes, he couldn’t deny it.

Sansa is right _beside_ him. The moonlight of the room washed over the bone of her brow, the smoothness of her face, and her lips are pinker. He could _feel_ the love in each breath he takes when he continues to shamelessly stare at her.

“My love.” She says so softly, her breath sweet as those lemon cakes she loves. Her eyes are so illuminating and it thrilled him to know she loves him so fiercely like this. Like the wolves they truly are.

“My sweet girl, my Sansa.”

 _What am I saying?_ Jon shouts in his mind but his hand reaches forward, cupping her cheek and leaning forward. He brushes his nose against hers, not minding the slight chill of her skin. From the corner of his eye, he sees it’s a room he hasn’t ever been in. Darkness flooded the room but there were barely any furniture, nothing that would strike any familiarity in this odd dream; the sweet dream he’s ever had.

“I’m yours, Jon, always.” His beloved says so devoutly that it confuses and heats him up all in one moment. Her hands cup his neck and he resists to purr like some starved alley cat. Her cotton shift is basically a transparent cloud, a mist on her skin for he can trace the litheness of her body with his eyes.

“I love you.” They say in the same breath, much to Jon’s confusion.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Leap of Faith (Into Your Arms)

Jon noticed things were going downhill for him a few days after he read the third entry of the late Queen Sansa. He was in his home office, coffee settled atop a leather coaster, Ghost stubbornly stretched out on the worn out sofa, and his foolish curiosity slowly dragging him to the edge of the cliff.

_Jon’s absent is always making itself known to me like the perpetual winter I reside in. A coldness seeps into my veins at the reality that my lovely brooding cousin isn’t by my side. My hand isn’t curled at his elbow and I do not counsel him in things he isn’t knowledgeable. This is one of the things I love about him, he is ever so infuriatingly humble. News has reached me that he held the title for youngest commander of the Night’s Watch, an honour that would’ve made Father proud no doubt. Yet when Tormund or Davos fleetingly mentions it, he waves it off and hurriedly talks of ledgers and training._

_Perhaps it’s because his supposedly sworn brothers had him murdered, knives slashing at his beautiful skin that now carries that pain memory for forever. The first time I saw those scars, I wept and embraced him profoundly tight that I never wanted to be parted from him. I often ask myself what sort of selfish monsters would dare hurt my Jon? He is so selfless, kind, and he possesses the most tender heart._

_He is haunted by his demons, those dark shadows dancing at the edge of his mind during the day. And so am I; the terrors I have faced and survived frequently plagued my mind. When the sun disappears from the sky and the night’s velvet obscures sunlight, these toxic thoughts grow limbs and crawl to the forefront of our minds, poisoning what could’ve been our childish sweet dreams. A necessary distraction from the gruesome world we live in._

_There is one but clear solution. We share one bed ever since we took back Winterfell from my monstrous husband. At first we kept a respectable distance even on the bed but as the nightmares grew worse, we grew closer. The love I have for him dangles in front of me; a feeling Mother would’ve greatly shamed me for having, for secretly nurturing it. ‘Twas before I found out he’s my cousin. The gods have pitied me for granting this small possibility for happiness._

_But he isn’t by my side, he isn’t beside me on my bed as the cursed images of my deceased husband flash in my mind. He is in Dragonstone to visit this foreign queen. Some have said she’s the most beautiful woman in the world and equally terrifying because of her dragons, fearsome creatures that everyone thought were dead. She has conquered the Free Cities and freed slaves from their chains. And now she wants to meet with the King in the North. Something about this is odd and unsafe to me but Jon doesn’t heed my counsel and goes to her anyways._

_I miss him dearly, every second without him makes me realize the role as a monarch is nothing if I don’t have someone I trust with me. Cersei, Littlefinger, and my other cruel mentors have taught me important things about ruling, about how dangerous and thrilling it is to have power, akin to the gods even._

_But what is a crown with no one to share it with?_

_I loathe loneliness with every bone in my body. I have suffered greatly in those times at the Capital, at the Eyrie. My family are leagues away from me, wars, duties, and circumstances separated myself from their warmth in times wherein I desperately needed an embrace. How dare Jon, my newfound cousin, give me a glimpse of how beautiful love and companionship is only to leave me? Instead of making myself sadder with this, I pour all my focus in making sure our allies will remain loyal even if their king is off gallivanting in the Targaryen’s ancestral seat. I must make his claim concrete, for him, for our safety, and for the North._

Jon took off his reading glasses, rubbing one side of his head, groaning. Pain intensified when he read the letter in Sansa’s silky voice, like it _hurt_ to listen to her fret and mourn for her lover. This is a first real glimpse in the late queen’s relationship with her cousin. So many speculations and theories have been published but this, what he’s holding, is concrete evident of how she felt about the famed almost knight.

He wanted to tell Sam, call his boss, but a great sense of hesitance inhibited that. To him, it felt like other people reading it is an invasion of _his_ privacy. More so, Sansa, the princess and very much alive one, trusted him and him alone in assessing her donations. He couldn’t outright betray her like that.

The door opens and in came Sam with a pink box on his hands. “Hey, mate, Gilly baked brownies for her friends. I got you a box because it’s your day off.” He announces and places the box on Jon’s desk. He scans the closed journal with interest. “You locked yourself in and writing a diary, eh? Tell me, are you Ygritte’s name on the corner pages?” He laughs, sitting down next to Ghost and digging his hand behind the dog’s ear.

“Oh ha ha, very funny but it’s actually for work.” Jon dryly responds.

Sam tosses him a disbelieving glance before standing up and brushing his pants. “Yeah sure. Anyways I’ll be ordering pizza for dinner.” He says before exiting the room.

Jon ducks his head, fixes the glasses that now sits on the bridge of his nose and he resumes in reading the entry with the oddest feeling of familiarity.

_Arya lurks about the castle with the weapon that sliced Littlefinger’s throat open, casually dangling on her waist. She has secrets, has done things while she was in Braavos that she hasn’t told me. In time, I know she will confide in me because we are sisters. We may not be as close as Jon but sisters have a bond no man can break. Though we have been away for some time, our irrelevant squabbles remains and sometimes when we argue, I can see the twitch in her mouth. A smile would’ve surfaced on her face because it reminds us of the old times,_

_Bran is an entirely different matter. If he’s not at the high table during meals, he’s at the godswoods, visions plaguing him any time of the day. He’s nothing like the young vivacious boy I once knew. The old Bran would climb walls, do impossible and courageous things before lunch. But life is cruel to us all and now gloom constantly hovers over him and so does the weight of knowing everything. Perhaps his enigmatic manner of speaking is a way to protect us from the future, to not have the same burden as he has._

_I write with worry weighing my heart greatly. For my lonely Jon, my stubborn warrior of a sister Arya, and my sullen Bran, the impending war between life and death is such a frightening thing to ponder on._

_Oh why did the gods allow us to leave Winterfell? We shouldn’t have left in the first place!_

_Sansa Stark_

 

Jon didn’t think about it much after reading it. During dinner, he ate and drank beer with Sam, as they watched some movie with Ghost snuggled between them.

“What’s it about?” His flat mate asked him, eyes trained on the movie’s one action scene.

“What’s what?”

“The special request Princess Sansa asked of you.” Sam inquired, sipping his beer.

He didn’t know if he should divulge or not. But at the same time he felt utterly perplexed by how _he_ reacted to those love letters Queen Sansa wrote to her lover. Because at this point, getting a preview of how she feels about him, it’s fairly obvious the queen is smitten by Jon but now better known as Aegon.

So he retold everything, including his bizarre dreams that now focus solely on Sansa. He stopped, waiting for Sam to process everything with his fingers fidgeting the hem of his ratty high school shirt.

Sam reclines further on the sofa and gazes at Jon with the same confusion he feels. “I don’t believe in soul mates or whatever shite hallmark is marketing but damn, this is a compelling case. Maybe you’re just confusing Sansa with Ygritte. I mean she’s been mooning over you for months now.” He pointed out with casual logic. A concept that Jon has found more foreign each time he reads another page of the queen's diary. 

 “Uh false there buddy.” Jon corrected with a frown.

His best friend snorts. “Look, people can’t recall the perfect details in their dreams. The moment you wake up, you forget like 90% of your dreams. Maybe you like Sansa. I don’t blame you but mate, she’s a bloody princess and you’re a nobody. So I think you should try and go out with the reachable barista, yeah?” He says and pats Jon’s shoulder with a smile.

The arguments died on his tongue. He _knew_ he saw Sansa in his dreams, basked in her feather like touches and how real it was. But he knows a lost battle when he sees one. He nods with a stiff smile and goes to bed.

This time, the first thing he sees or rather feels, are Sansa’s fingers dancing on his chest. Her face is adorably scrunched up in concentration. He could tell it was a lazy morning because they’re still in bed, not running around managing the ruins of their castle.

He smiles in ease, being the only one to see her like this. Her fiery locks are messy, flowing down on one shoulder; the freckles on her face are more prominent by the wane sunlight drifting in the room.

“True brothers would _never_ ponder on hurting one another.” She murmurs to his chest, her slim fingers graze on the scars. They’re mostly healed but they leave these hideous reminders of their betrayal, of his death. “Bran, Tormund, and Sam, they’re your true brothers not these men of the Night’s Watch.” She spits out like a wolf inclined to getting angry.

“I’m here now, with _you_.” Jon says and for emphasis he intertwines their hand. He lays a hundred kisses on her knuckles, delighting in the simper he receives. “Death itself can’t keep me away from you. We go through this life together.” He says like a vow spoken in the godswoods, where the gods be their witnesses. Marriage with Sansa is the only thing he wants in the world. He wants to wake up next to her, to love her until their dying days. It’s a life so tempting that Jon has never felt so selfish until this moment, gazing at his beauty.

“You can’t leave me now, my love.” She declares with a firm grip on him. There was a vulnerable undertone underneath the ferocious demand. She ducks her head, plating a butterfly kiss on the most brutal scar, near his heart. Once he would’ve winced at such a heartbreakingly tender gesture but now, he can only feel the love she plants on his skin.

Jon wakes up with a start. He grasps the front of his shirt and noticed it’s pooled with sweat. He runs his shaking hand through his hair and rips out the blanket from him. it was still early in the morning, moonlight fills the room despite its darkness. Scrambling, he walks in front of the mirror and ripping his shirt off.

There, near his heart, is a long white jagged scar. He has always assumed he had gotten it at some forgotten accident, an event he can no longer recall in his youth. But now as he stares at it longer, he could almost feel Sansa’s touch on him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im taking this story v carefully so uhh comments about it would be super helpful and kudos!!


	4. Fill My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a filler chapter. hope its okay. oh and heads up the next chapter will be super sad im writing this chapter to try and pace my story.

Arya won yet another fencing tournament.

_Did I really?_

She turned to her right and sees her opponent being tended from a medic. A man in a suit was crouching to her level, talking with a recorder in hand. _Did they pay her to lose?_ It’s a constant thought with each battle she wins, like another badge pinned on her chest to tell of her supposed victories. It can’t be helped because she knows if she fails, Mother would tell her _I told you so_ for an entire month.

_Princesses are meant to hold tea cups not know the weight of an epee._

_You must be thinking of Sansa then._ Arya thought.

The roar of crowds used to be deafening to her ears at times she wanted to cover her ears. But she inclines her chin, meeting everyone’s gaze and more importantly at her family that’s seated at the deluxe watch box, floated above everyone else. In a way, it goes outside of the stadium as well.

 _You shouldn’t let them know you’re afraid. You’re a Stark, love. Your forefathers tamed beasts with nothing but a stare and a few words._ Father told her after that one time she rudely told one paparazzi to stop harassing her and her friends. All they did was hangout at some café, miles out of the city but no, _of course,_ they were able to track her down.

Sure later on she, Hot Pie, and Mya shared laughs over the photos. Yet the rage couldn’t be contained as she snatched the camera from one of them, smashed it at their feet. She took her wallet off, throwing bills on the concrete sidewalk. “Apologies, my hands slipped.” She sneered then walked away.

She couldn’t do that now because there were hundreds of cameras, all from varying news station. They would broadcast this even for at least a week, praise her and her skill. When it was over, she walked to the locker room, cradling her helmet to her hip.

No one was here. Most like, they were escorted out of the room to give her some privacy. She laughs as she undresses herself. The sound echoed in the almost empty room.

A princess having privacy? Now that was laughable.

She doesn’t have that even when she goes to uni. Much more when she’s participating in a nationwide competition in fencing. After changing into a fresh turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, and a blue plaid over her outfit, she walked out and was surprised to meet no intruder of this so called privacy. Not even Brienne or Gendry are stiffly waiting for her.

Instead, it was Sansa.

Her sister looked elegant, as usual. Her fiery locks are tied into a braid similar to Mother’s. She wore a silky blouse tucked into a knee high lilac skirt with matching heels. She’s the perfect picture definition of royalty. Standing near her in ripped jeans and the baggy plaid made her self-conscious. And she _hated_ feeling that.

“Sister.” Arya greets her, hiding the surprise in her tone.  

Sansa dips her chin in acknowledgement. “I came here to congratulate you on your win. You looked… spirited.” She says with the practiced politeness Arya could spout out if need be.

She knows that Sansa isn’t inclined to her interests just as much as she doesn’t have a care about Sansa’s hobbies. But Sansa was quick in supporting Arya in this decision, against the princess rules and their mother’s wish.

“Thank you. Victories do great for our family.” She answers, slinging her equipment on one shoulder.

She eyes her outfit intensely. “You’re getting bolder and might I say, romantic. I recognized that from when we went to this snow resort. He wore that on top of other jackets.” She observed, her blue eyes twinkling.

The younger sister isn’t the one to blush but her observation does the trick. She shuffles, her sneakers squeaking. “It’s comforting.” She muttered, keeping her voice low and guarded. Not from Sansa, no they may have their differences but they trusted each other beyond words. No, anyone could be listening and if they hear about this, Mother would faint.

They walked together, in silence. The hallway was long and thoroughly vacant except for them which is still mysterious to her. There were no guards at every corner, shades on their face and the classic suits.

“He hasn’t called.” Sansa muttered. She didn’t look her way and Arya wonders how calm one could sound when the trouble concerns their soul mate. Mother trained them well because her older sister didn’t express any of the grief and concern she knows churning in her right now.

“He must be busy.” Arya replied, trying to put as much comfort as she can but it isn’t enough. She almost wished Sansa confide in someone else because they both know how terrible she is with emotions and love. But Sansa trusted _her_ to keep the secret. “Or in a coma because of the shock you’ve out him in.”

Briefly, there was that glimpse of the worry and she sighs. “I would’ve sensed him dying. It’s a horrible thing to feel. I can’t bear to feel his life slipping away again. Honestly, I think I’ve lost count on how many times I _felt_ his soul leaving the world.” She whispered, her voice cracking with such affections.

Silently, she cursed the gods for fashioning love this way. It’s the only thing anyone wants yet the sacrifice, the pain of it all almost makes it not worth it. But this is Sansa, she wants someone to share these lifetimes with.

Arya stopped her and gently cupped her shoulder. “Once, Gendry died as a marine and drowned in a submarine I think. I couldn’t do anything because I was at the other side of the world at Florence. I was in the markets but I doubled over, my lungs filled with water and I felt like _I_ was the one drowning with him. I hate open waters now.” Her voice got dangerously tremulous and she was staring at the wall beside Sansa.

She felt a squeeze of hand from her and shifted on her feet. “What I’m trying to say is that we all suffer because of love. But in the next life, it’s always sweeter, better because that’s the reward of our sufferings.”

Sansa gave a shaky smile. Her eyes were still watery but the small was genuine. “Little sister is giving me relationship advice. My, perhaps your foe hit you on the head too hard.” She teased, her cold fingers resting on Arya’s smaller hand.

She scowled though it did no effect. “Don’t get used to it.”

Sans’s smile faltered. “I want to call him. Or just to see him, even from afar I do not care anymore.” She pleaded.

Arya clicked her tongue and shook her head. Now she understood why Sansa shooed away the guards and the paparazzi. She wanted to be alone, to be vulnerable with _her._ It gives her honor and awkwardness with this thought. ”You know it doesn’t work that way. The memories come back in their own time.” She sternly reminds her.

She nods, full of gloom and unfortunate understanding. “Mother says it’s because love blooms in its own way. It isn’t forced or suddenly make itself known. _Apparently,_ a soul mate’s love must be natural and with freedom.” She almost sobbed and leaned back on the wall. She swayed and Arya rubbed her palm on her older sister’s arm.

“I do want our Jon back.” She admits, recalling those memories they spent almost thousands of years ago. He would call her “little sister”, ruffle her mousy brown hair, and give her that comforting smile. “I want to throttle his neck and tell him our history too, don’t get me started. But it would put him in shock and be in such a state of confusion he would go mad.” She warned her, awkwardly petting her hair.

“You don’t think he’s seeing anyone right now? Perhaps he hasn’t read the letters…” She muttered, her shoulders slumping.

“Hey, hey, you’re happy ending is so close within your reach. After those decades without him, I’m sure the gods would give you this. Patience, sister, isn’t that what mum used to say?” Arya gently said. She too felt the pain over the centuries, of not meeting him, feeling his death, her own life slipping and the crushing grief with the knowledge that he could feel her death.

Sansa eyes her with that fragile look akin to a helpless animal, cornered and all other options are unreachable. “I’m sorry for being silly and crying. You just won a competition. I’m proud of you.” She cups Arya’s cheek with affection and smiles.

“I don’t mind, really. Any time you’re feeling down just talk to me. We’re sisters.” Arya says with conviction, with fierceness they have inherited from direwolves. The history of animosity isn’t relived in their recent lives because of the atrocities they have endured, the pain that can be founded as a strong fort for their family. 

“Ladies?” Brienne’s cautious voice bounced along the walls. She approached them, tugging the lapel of her suit and Arya caught a glimpse of the leather holster where her gun is strapped on.

Long ago, there would’ve been a sword at their hips, hers would be Oathkeeper, glinting in brilliance, as though any gift from Lannisters should only be in a form of gold of jewels. “We should get going.” She announces with the ever so subtle concern underneath her voice; always worrying over their safety.

Sansa nods. “Of course. We have a special luncheon to celebrate victory for you, little sister.” She admits.

“I’ll act surprised.” Arya mutters, making the women laugh.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Arya knows the routine of the guard shifts just outside her door. It’s derived from stubborn determination of seeing him, even for a few minutes. She’s in her room, her silver laptop opened but she doesn’t really focus on her requirements. Nymeria is at her feet, the cold snout resting on her feet and the dog is snoring.

She sips the steaming tea, attempting to finish the needed essay. On her smooth pearl white studying desk, there are several silver framed photographs of her with Gendry. Some were onion skinned, black and white photos that featured two airline pilots, arm in arm. Some were more recent in the odd decades of long ago; each photo represented a specific era in which they met. Long before photography was invented, they met then, but most were unhappy, and either she or he died before they could meet.

Cradling one of her favourite ones featured Gendry dressed as a general meanwhile Arya is a southern belle, a fan covering half of her face but her eyes twinkle in mischief.

“Hey.”

She has been an assassin, a spy for Her Majesty dozens of times before but still she’s surprise when Gendry whispers his greeting. Swivelling her luxury chair, she glowers at him but it melts away when he opens his arms to her. It’s a chance she will greedily take every time because they aren’t sure when a chance of such heavenly prospects will expire.

“Hi.” Arya finally replies but doesn’t inch away from the embrace. Her face is pressed against his chest, her arms wound tight around his waist.

He kisses the top of her head, one large hand rubbing comfort into her nerves and she relaxes against him. “I don’t want you to suffocate on me, okay? Being in your room without a chaperone is enough for your father to behead me.”

Slowly, they distanced themselves, both settling at the edge of her queen sized bed, hands intertwined.

“Congratulations.” He murmured with a quirked smile.

Arya began to talk about the competition, the difficulty of facing each opponent with healthy chance of losing. “But before each match starts, I remember what it felt like when I had Needle with me. Real steel facing against real enemy and it’s not for some contest but to fight for another chance to breathe.”

“Do you miss it then?” Gendry asks, lying down on her bed. “The filth of Braavos, the simple life we could’ve had, dragons and direwolves.”

Arya lies down next to him, snuggling at his side. She smiles when she feels a light kiss on the top of her head; where a twinkling tiara would sit in times of dire princess protocols. “Honestly? I don’t care! Even when times change, it’ll always feel good and familiar when we’re together.” She whispers against his cheek before pressing a soft kiss on his skin.

“You’re suddenly a romantic, love! Being a princess makes you soft for your prince, eh?” He taunts with a laugh that vibrates his chest with that comforting sound.

Without any effort or protest at his side, Arya settles herself on top of him with a defiant quirk on her mouth and a mischievous spark in her eyes. “Soft? I am No One, I have been trained by the Faceless Men. You _dare_ insinuate I am feely because you’re my soul mate?”

Gendry blinked, totally unaffected by the threat. “Well duh.”

They both laugh.

“I really am.” Arya admits with a fierce blush heating her face up. She doesn’t protest when Gendry circles his large arms around her and he plants a tender kiss on her neck. She dug her face on his shoulder and breathed in his consoling scent, joyous on how he’s truly with her in this life time.

“And I you.”

 


	5. I'd Die For you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im genuinely surprised u guys like this story and the comments make me motivated to write more !!

_The atrocities I have lived through have made me a shrew woman, I know. My heart is as guarded as Winterfell, granite walls rising high, nearly touching the sky in caution because it has been too much, suffered such heartaches I do not know why I still breathe. Safety is what I have been yearning for, for years, since Father died, since I had to flee the capital for my sake. And Jon provided that for me though his skin is chilled form his resurrection, his love washed over me like the baths at the godswoods._

_When I was younger, a kiss from a renowned brave knight would’ve melted me to a puddle. But after being Alayne, men groping me with no care at all in what I have to say, my skin crawled at the very notion of a man touching me. I knew my resolve about physical contact has been ruined when Jon kissed my forehead; a solemn display of affection. The look on his face (dear gods!), the determination and utterly loyalty he has to keep me safe was something I haven’t seen in such a long time. A part of me felt guilty because he wanted a safe life for us, somewhere in Essos. The other part of me revels in his utter obedience to my wishes, as though he is my most beloved knight that came from my mind._

_Sometimes, seeing him at the great seat, with Longclaw at his side, Ghost curled at his feet, and me by his side, I couldn’t help but feel this is how things should be. Us, the Northern royalty, rising from the ashes and blood the Boltons have lay waste on my ancestral home. I truly do love him. I love him more so than Mother would’ve allowed. If only she knew how I yearn for him, how we love in the hour of the wolf. With the moonlight bathing his skin, riddled with my nails scratches and blooming purple on his neck, Surely she would’ve condone this love in these dark times?  I truly felt the gods brought him back for me. And only me, he is my destined._

_But the gods are cruel and apathetic to my childish yearnings._

_Jon comes back from Dragonstone with the most beautiful queen in the world. I didn’t believe my instinct at first because this is my Jon, lovely and brooding. He has never poured his attentions on women before, before everything. But now, the rumours grow louder that I cannot ignore it anymore, nor the ache and fury nearly crushing my heart._

_He betrays me, the North, our home for some Southron woman. His aunt no less! At this realization, the walls around my heart grew higher it puts the Wall to shame._

_Why did I allow him to slither past my defences, let him turn me into the naïve child I outgrew?_

Dread.

That is all Jon could feel as he read this particular entry of the late Queen Sansa’s journal. The shame of invading her privacy has long been forgotten for his curiosity, a living thing, grows and demands more of this mystery so securely wrapped in this leather bound notebook.

He dreaded this part of the journal for gods know how long for reasons he doesn’t even know. Almost as though he _does_ know but the memory is watery, slips past his hands if he tries to grasp it too tightly. The images she painted were hauntingly familiar, an ache in his chest echoes at how broken she sounds by his-Aegon’s betrayal.

Once, in his free time, he wandered in the halls of Southron history since it can’t be helped how these two nations are connected by wars and tragedy. Lines and lines of Westerosi rulers are framed in gold with the names of the kings, queens, and in oil painting.

He stopped at Daenerys Targaryen; a beautiful woman with silver braided hair, brilliant lilac eyes, and a frown on her mouth. She’s regal in a dress of black and red, resembling her house, vaguely resembling smoke and flames; fire and blood. Her unflinching gaze made him remember-

 _Remember?_ Jon thought back with a shock. What was that memory slowly crawling to his mind? He slammed his hand down on the table, startling Ghost, and he groaned in frustration. It seems that reading those letters would be the only viable answer, option; he has to solve this enigma.

_He begged to have a private audience with me, days and nights following his arrival. The North pride in me refused, sternly requesting him to tact formality when he addresses me. “When addressing a queen, Your Grace should be in front of your sentences. You had more manners when you were a bastard, not this, my kingly cousin who’s at his aunt’s favour. Do tell me, is it different in the Free Cities in which she is addressed then? Fashioning yourself like her now? Oh Father would roll in his grave if he had one.”_

_My heart clenched at seeing his grey eyes light with hurt and he looked as though I did a number of blows to him. Words have a deeper effect than the blades Arya loves. We both know it now. I hated him. I hated that he left me, sold my home to this woman who thinks the gods sent her to be my salvation. I used to think he is that to me, a kind present from the gods as an apology for everything._

_When the time came to leave, to fight the dead and slay the Night King, I couldn’t bear to look at him. I’m such a fool for quietly flourishing this worry for him. The thought of him dying again is unthinkable to me. He can’t leave me but there are more at stake than my petty love. This queen he has so graciously invited to my halls wander about with her dragons, chin high in the air like she thinks a crown should be on her head, and her eyes are so tender for her nephew._

_This is war, I thought to myself, as I ignore her hand on Jon’s thigh. And I have lost the man but won the crown. Is it truly a victory?_

_“He will come back.” Arya whispers to me as we both stand in front of each other. She’s ready for battle with Needle at her hip._

_“You have to.” I say, choking back the tears as we rush to hug each other. I find it ridiculous how I hated having her as my sister because now I will miss her tenderly so._

_I didn’t say goodbye to Jon alone for I am not sure I can fend him off. But every time I look at him, I remember how careless he is at giving our home to this foreign woman. He says he does it to protect me, to ensure my safety within the walls and I can live a long and happy life._

_Why is it he doesn’t know all I ever wanted was home? I found that in him. I loved him so much that i couldn’t deal with the reality that he’s off to war, with the real chance of dying, of being out of my life._

_Perhaps I didn’t approach him because deep down, I know he will always come back to me. I would crown him my victor, my knight and if the gods are even a tiny bit of merciful my husband._

_But first, he should win the war first then I will worry about how he would earn my trust._

He closes the journal, his throat closing up and his eyes are burning with tears. This, oh why did the gods allow this painful memory to rest in his mind? It’s late in the night and he should be sleeping but that would torment and confuse him even more. He couldn’t, _could not,_ live through this specific memory, slowly refocusing so Jon can’t deny what it is.

He doesn’t remember sleeping, only dying.

The Night King is _right_ in front of him, ice sword in his hand. The battle goes on around him, he hears his comrades shouting commands, to steady their defences but prepare to attack otherwise; he couldn’t wish for a finer army than the ones who would die for each other. But this is his chance to end everything, to provide peace to all nations. His bones ache, Longclaw is caked with red wet death, dripping dots into the ice but he nearly growls at the sight of the true enemy. He is quick but this being, beyond reason, flesh, and human, is quicker.

Jon ‘s knees slam hard on the ice, the gifted longsword skitters away from him and he could only stare at it with blurry vision. His hand searches for the site of injury but the Night King’s weapon is made of ice and mist so there couldn’t be any blood. In the distance, he heard Arya scream his name, in fury and devastation. _That_ is worse than dying because he knows how his little sister feels, felt her shriek down to his cold bones.

He thinks of Sansa, his sweet girl, the very reason he’s alive and fighting right now. _I know she’s mad but I will grovel back to Winterfell in snow and hail if it means she will love me again._

Gritting his teeth, he staggers to stand, gathering the Night King’s attention. If it had feelings, it would’ve been confused at how this man clad in grey wool, clutching his side, still stands in defiance.

 _For the North,_ Jon thinks as he clasps a dagger in his hand and runs towards the eternal enemy.

The icy sword touches his neck and Jon sits up on his desk. He had been cradling the journal, snoring loud, and Ghost has been nudging his knee for the past few minutes. His pet, companion, must've sensed Jon's distress, seeping and blackening his dreams with the dark truth of his past.

“I-I left her.” He sobbed, the tears raced down his cheeks, staining the slacks.

No one heard but perhaps the gods did, yet nothing happened anyways.

 


	6. I Dance to Your Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posh parties usually avoid dramas. With (un)fortunate luck, Arya Stark doesn't care about rules and values family above all else. Even if that means potentially giving her mother a fright of the century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all enjoy this quick chapter ehe

The annual charity event the museum holds in inconsequential to Jon. He strides in the ballroom wearing a rented out stiff tux, converse with the gala donors, amuse them with mundane weathers and it’s done for the day. He doesn’t think about it the next day when he can still taste the expensive sherry in his mouth.

He sits with the rest of the employee as the HR department elaborate on the theme of the party. To his right is Sam, chatting excitedly with Gilly and Tormund. He’s bored out of his mind, just wanting so dearly to return to his office and resume to read a very interesting article in the newspaper. But no, he has to suffer to listen to the details of some posh kiss ass party he doesn’t even want to attend.

“And we have a special guest!” Mya, the ever so vivacious Marketing head, announced with a joyous bounce. “The Royal family shall also attend the party since in technicality, they’re now our donors. We received absolute confirmation of their attendance.”

Everyone talked at once, even more so than before.

Jon is _frozen_ on his seat because that means he has a chance to see Sansa. His heart jumps at that chance, to see the most beautiful woman in the world is like seeing a glimpse of Heaven. Because then, _then,_ perhaps he could ask about the journal and how it showed him the most bizarre things, If he said the things out loud again, he’d be certain Sir Davos would send him to the mad house. Especially because he thinks there are truths in his dreams.

If he tries hard enough, he could recall the softness of her skin, the smile she gives sends warmth in his bones. The love they have is something history remembers, celebrates and glorifies.

He recalls his faults now, his shortcomings and so he hesitates in whooping in glee at that news. _Will she take me back?_ He wonders because he would walk in Earth a century more than to face another rejection from her. He has suffered enough for other people for following his golden heart already.

“Don’t act all weird on Princess Sansa, alright?” Sam jested as they filed out into the hall.

“Weird?” Jon echoed in a whine and threw a light glower at Sam.

“Yes, don’t go spouting about that you’re her soul mate. She’d likely call you mental and her body guards would tackle you to the ground.” His best friend warns. “Plus you know how frantic Sir Davos gets with this. He’d want no drama in any way. And that includes you mooning over the Princess.”

Heat spreads through his cheeks and he tugs on his beige coat. “I don’t moon over her, Sam.”

“Mate, I live with you. I can hear you sleep talk sometimes and it’s her name.”

They enter his office; a mess since he stepped foot a week ago. He smiled as he gazed at the seat where she sat, recalling how lovely and how he’s quite taken by her in their first meeting.

“Well, I’ll try then.” Jon lies.

_The gods only know how blindly devoted I am to her._

_Once, I heard a gossip of how I say my cousin’s name like a beloved song, in that lilt of adoration that raised eyebrows and suspicious grew firmer. Back then, I used to tell Jon what the servants think of us. Our shoulders pressed together, hands brushing in shy touches, and our gazes were directed at the fireplace. But I know we both felt the heat and I snuggled against his side under the guise of the winter we’re in._

_I lied to myself thinking I love him in the way I love my siblings. What I should’ve realized is I love him the way Mother loved Father, fiercely. This is the foundation of the life I built with him but like a castle it tumbles down, the bricks would break or be destroyed and all will be left is a ruin of haunting memories._

_It has been three moons since the battle against the Night King ended. Daenerys now sits on the Iron Throne with her right hand man, Tyrion, sitting on the small council. It is said she’s a swift and decisive, with her lone dragon curling around the Red Keep, chaos is reigned in chains; restrained and barely so._

_Yet Southron affairs have little effect on my kingdom, the North, aloof to foreigners._

_I am the Queen in the North and my advisers frequently commented on my efficient rule, how I am beloved by the people for guiding them through the Long Night, how I have graced the Stark name with glory once more, like Father before me._

_Arya prowls around Winterfell, vigilant as any assassin and quiet as the shadows in the night. She sits with me in the Great Hall, her broken arm nicely healing according to Maester Sam. Even if her arm is snug in a sling, she still twirls the dagger in her left hand, truly she is skilled no matter her injuries. And most of the time, she spends her time at the armory, with this Gendry Waters. They have explained their situations to me and I welcome a new member to my growing family._

_But I see the edged glances they send me and I know what they think._

_I haven’t said his name since he left and no one talks of him._

_I know for a fact that they know what happened to him. I do not ask but my heart whispers nightmares into my hopes. I fear he has joined Daenerys to rule Westeros together. After claiming victory, he tossed aside the North for his other heritage, one bathed in glory, fire, and blood. In addition, his enchanting aunt is there._

_He left me so Daenerys would cease her threats for me to bend to another ruler, to give someone else control of my castle._

_At night, it’s the same image, the same torment running through my veins that I awoke in cold sweat, on the brink of crying and my hands grasping for nothing but cold silks. My lovely Jon is on some frozen ground, his head rolling away his shoulders and the Night King stands before his body with triumph. But Arya and the Northern army march on._

_Maybe if I believe he’s alive and well, away from me, the gods would will it._

_But one afternoon, the day was too enticing as the council meeting ended. Arya was explaining a complicated sword move while I held my hand out and a snowflake melts into my leather glove. “Jon would love to see tha-“_

_Tears blurred my eyes in realization and Arya’s joy slips form her face and now she wore a face of grief._

_“I know he’s off with the Southron Queen, Arya, no need to be gentle with me.” I say, without facing her as the tears felt colder on my cheeks. Closing my eyes, if I try hard enough, I can feel his beard on my cheek and how he’d always tell me I’m his reason to breathe, to be alive. And he will always be my reason to live. I’m always his in any point of time._

_Hearing Arya’s choked cry was alarming and I saw her trying to cover her sobs. I approached her, rubbing her back but it made things worse as fat tears rolled down Arya’s cheeks. Dread filled my chest I could barely breathe because a warrior like my fierce sister wouldn’t cry like this in normal circumstances._

_“I thought that lie would be good enough but gods, Sans, I can’t deceive you any longer. I know you love him like a wife to a husband. We would’ve been so happy together.” Arya gasps, clutching her like she’s a small and frightened child, not at all a feared warrior._

_My hand trembles greatly in recalling the exact moment I learned of his death. I don’t remember falling to the ground, barely reacted to Arya’s awkward comforts through her panted breaths. My heart is numb, blood ran icy as the winds, and my love is dead._

_Why would the gods deny me the person I have longed for my entire life? To detest him as he lives in Westeros is far more appealing than to know the truth, he fell in battle for the realm._

_I should’ve listened to him. We should’ve run away to Essos so I can truly be his wife and we’d have babbling children running around. A little garden out in the cottage and he would kiss my forehead each time I see him and I would be more in love with him every day._

_I don’t even have a body to mourn over! No body to properly bury._

_The crown of wrought iron and steel sits at my desk, taunting me of a memory. My beloved wore that crown, though for a short while, but cradling his head of rioting ebony locks, served as a bittersweet thing to me. He’s my King, no matter what. He was kind, gentle, brave, and much more._

_Jon will always be my husband; no matter we didn’t recite our vows in the godswood. My love for him will stand through time, I swear it. He died for the North, the realm but I know he would’ve lived for me and loved me._

_Yours,_

_Sansa Stark_

He now knows it’s a bad idea to read the entries before the parties. When he blinks, small tears dots his cheeks, his hands are shaking and his thoughts revolve around one certain redhead.

A knock rapped on his door and he scrambles to shove the notebook in his desk’s drawer and hastily wipes his eyes.

Sam appears with suspicion clear on his chubby face. “So hi.” He drawls out. He’s a keen man, a scholar from one of the most prestigious universities and it isn’t because of his name that has old money. “I see your drinking that hundred year old scotch in your office without any lights.” He deadpanned.

“Sherlock got nothing on you.” Jon retorted, refilling his glass.

“You flatter me but seriously get your arse up. You gotta suffer with me in this fancy party.” Sam urges, entering the office and making Jon stand up with an arm on Jon’s elbow.

_I can’t look at her. I’m too ashamed._

Wordlessly, he follows Sam into the ballroom. Grimacing at the faceless influential people, he takes another swig of his drink, not flinching at the sour of it. His initial instinct is to stay _away_ from this scene because she might linger about, looking so radiant and tempting and never his.

The gods are cruel, letting Jon see her once more, after all these lifetimes; only to be reminded that their love can never be. Catelyn is in the crowd, ever vigilant but coolly amiable to the guests. The last he saw her, the Queen Mother was chatting with Davos.

“Why don’t you join the gang? Tormund and Val are doing bets and Tourmund keeps on asking me for money to keep up.” Sam complained with a groan.

Jon laughs as Sam glares at him. “Bane is such a sore loser! Next thing I know, he’ll drain my wallet.” He gently elbows his best friend and they both chuckle. He bumped against one of the royal security and he was about to apologize, if not for having the weirdest feeling he knows this suited man.

“Sorry, mate.”  Jon finally said.

The guy had messy dark locks, his green eyes are sharper under this light. His mouth tilts into a smirk and he nods. “Sure thing, Mr Snow, not a problem.” He assures.

_I know this man._

“H-How do you know my name?”

“You gave the welcoming speech about two hours ago, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Gendry Waters, sir.”

Gendry pressed his fingers against the ear piece and sighs. “I have to go. One of the princesses is well, being _herself_ which translates to trouble for everybody else.”

Sam stares at Jon. “Okay doing small talk with the bodyguards won’t bring you any closer to Princess Sansa.”

Jon readies a response, a biased defence for her but he gazes beyond his friend’s shoulder. Frozen on his feet, he couldn’t look away, enchanted by her happiness. It’s always he wanted her to feel anyways. He’d kill any man who would dare make Sansa Stark sad or cry.

His love is dressed so glamorous tonight. Her fiery locks flow down her back and under the light, it imitates a current of some river. His convinced the dress’s fabric comes for the moonlight, spun for yards and wraps on her pale skin like second layer. The way she smiles sends his heart in an overload of affection; love, happiness, utter devotion.

But, in this moment, she’s dancing with none other than Harry Hardyng. The dashing blonde is a prince of his own land, an apparent heir to the Vale which means more power and titles will flow right into his velvet lined pockets.  

He doesn’t know when Sam moves to stand at his side, pity clear in his dark eyes as he tries to comfort Jon’s breaking heart. “It’s everywhere in the news how he’s courting her.  Being pragmatic, it makes sense. He’s a prince to be in a rich country and she’s the eldest daughter-“

“I get it. Thank you, Sam. I need fresh air.” Jon intervened with a snap. He walks away, clenched jaw and head bent down in shame.

_Of course she won’t wait for me. She has better options than nobody like me. I was a bastard now I don’t even have the Stark name._

He takes random turns in the maze of the museum. Hand sin pockets, whistling an old sad song, he figures his legs will be numb when he’s done gallivanting around the wide and empty halls. Pausing at a specific corner, he ehars voices and they’re both frustratingly familiar but he can’t place the origin.

“I have to talk to him, you idiot!”

“I don’t think you should. Aren’t you supposed to wait until he comes to his senses?” The guy pleads and Jon stiffens when he realizes it’s the bodyguard he met earlier.

Jon bent his upper body forward and he spots an odd pair. Gendry is leaning against a wall, his hand holds a martini glass with a plastic straw in it. And the woman is shorter than him. She has chocolate locks braided and pinned on the nape of her neck. The dress is navy, stopping at her knees and accentuates her curves but her stance is alert yet relaxed; only a fighter would stand like that Jon thinks with a laugh.

The princess turns to his direction, scowling and Gendry stands beside her. “Who’s there?” She calls out.

Jon walks out of his hiding place and a smile graces his mouth. “Little sister.” His voice cracked under the overwhelming emotions of seeing her in the flesh again. He opens his arms and catches her perfectly in time, swinging her about, laughing with her.

Settling her down, Arya wraps her lean arms around his waist, and she sighs. “So you remember me, Jon?” She whispers, sounding so much like a child, like the sister he left behind.

Jon knows better than to ruffle the complicated looking braid. He settles with rubbing Arya’s back and hugs her tighter. “I carry our memories in my heart, little one. Gods, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” Arya cried out and tightened his grip and also most like to accidentally choke him if not for Gendry gently reminding her of it. She stands in front of him, cheeks dusting with a blush. “How much of our conversation have you heard?”

“That you missed me terribly!” Jon exclaims making all three of them laugh.

Arya scrunches her nose in mock disgust. “Yeah sure whatever.” Her eyes widened and she claps her hands. “We have to smuggle you to Sansa!”

Gendry nods. “The poor girl misses you greatly, Jon.” He agrees.

Jon wanted to laugh again. “Uh yeah, she misses me _greatly_ she’s dancing with that twat Hardyng.” He snorts, hands in his pockets. “Look Arya I’m glad we’re reunited can we keep this to ourselves? Seeing you again fills my heart with joy. I don't want Sansa to _have_ to be with me because of this connection. If she's happy with Harry then so be it.”

"Yeah no." Gendry says in the most obvious tone like it was common knowledge.

The smaller brunette bobs her head. “It’s wonderful to see you again. But I want our family reunited! Jon, it’s been so long since Sansa has seen you. I don’t know how this Hardyng is but Sansa misses you too.” She covers his hand with her small hands. “I have a plan.”

“Oh no.” The men say simultaneously.


	7. Shadows of the Past Melt at Your Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for taking such a long break. i had so many things in my life and also a loss of inspiration that led me to think im not a good writer lmao. anyways i wrote this in like 2 hours so hopefully it won't e so bad. might write more

The walk back to the ballroom was filled with reminiscent conversation of their pasts (a little profound for the three of them). It felt as though there weren’t any centuries between their reunion and they only met yesterday.

 Jon noticed how Gendry interlaced his fingers with Arya in an alarming ease. He tries to not show his confusion because when did _that_ honestly happen? Don’t they always argue about every significant thing ever? He assumes by Arya’s fierce attitude that she’d have suitors at a distance, more specifically with Needle pointing towards them.

“I can feel your gaze man. Yes, we are dating.” Gendry laughs, clapping Jon’s back with his free back.

Jon snorts though a little blush creeps to his cheeks. He didn’t mean to act like a big brother. After all what right did he have for leaving her so soon? To having met with them earlier than now? “I-it’s weird for me. I’m assuming you had the big brotherly talk with F-“ His mouth clamped shut, suddenly remembering that in this life, Fathe-Uncle Ned had also died.

It has been years and iciness spreads somewhere in his chest at this notion. Looking down, he spots Arya’s small hand on his and a shadowed smile on her mouth.

“Gendry is the sort of man he would’ve wanted me to be with.” Arya says, solemn and firm.

The subject of their conversation coos and ruins the serious atmosphere, making the other two roll their eyes in exasperation. “Babe, I didn’t know you adore me that much! Oh my god!”

Jon laughed at Arya’s glower; it’s quite legendary back in the day.

“Jon, if he says a comment like that again, please deck him.”

“No hesitation on my side, little sister.”

Arya glances at him as they pause in front of the large doors, decorated with golden swirls and shapes. “Are you ready to woo the Princess of the North?”

“Is she ready to fall for me?” Jon chirped, earning a snort from the body guard.

Gendry flattened his hand down his tie and heaved a sigh. “I should arrest you for that corny ass reply, Snow.”

 Heels were heard and a strong voice called out his friend’s name. They all turned to see a towering blonde marching up to them. Her frown is more evident with the bright cherry lipstick on her mouth and the way her blue eyes were sharper as she stared down at the trio. She had an ear piece, her expression is so serious Jon wondered if she carried the world on her shoulders. The blonde also wore a suit matching that of Gendry.

“Where have you been?” She barked out.

“He was with me, Briennne. I got lost finding the restroom.” Arya answered without a beat of hesitation.

Brienne’s shoulders slackened a fraction and she mechanically nodded like she has to accept the only explanation for the princess’s actions. “Okay but we have to go _now._ Your sister is about to give her speech and the family should be there.” Her attention then slide to Jon; who has been awkwardly rocking on his heels. “And you are?”

“He’s the curator of the museum! He’s been boring us with facts about the things around. I actually wanted him to meet Mother. You know how she adores antiques and such.” Arya laughed and waved her hand in the air.

The other bodyguard appeared convinced for she nods. “Okay but perhaps after the speech, yes? Mister, you could wait near the stage if you would like to have a talk with Mrs. Stark.” She orders.

Jon noticed how stern she behaved; like an uptight knight of sorts. The gun slung at her hip could’ve been easily replaced with a glinting sword. “Okay.” He agrees.

Entering the scene once more, he felt a hand on his shoulder and sees his boss. He couldn’t say another word as Davos started to stir him towards the stage. “Uh, s-sir?” He stammered, eying Arya who arched her eyebrow at them. Now, they all climbed the stage.

“You will stand next to me as I receive the check the royal family will give to our institution.” His boss ordered in that unique accent that isn’t of the North.

Jon tries to school in his bewildered and shocked behaviour as literally everyone in the room is staring at them. At the bottom of the stage were a line of photographers with their cameras constantly flashing. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he spots his friends; Sam, Tormund, and Val mockingly raising their glasses of champagne with unanimous mischievous expressions.

Sansa is still continuing with his speech, unaware of the other people lining up on the stage. Her voice fluctuates depending on what she’s saying, with emotion and prideful of what the museum has for Northern History. The position he’s at provided an ethereal angle of his beloved; the spotlight on her the way it should be.

He could almost see the crown cradling her head and he could pretend she’s addressing the lords and ladies of the great hall.

“…And now, my family and I would like donate more to this remarkable institution. They have shouldered the treasure and richness of our culture and every aspect that makes us all, in this room, Northernerns.” Sansa turns, stepping down on the podium. Arya hands her the large rectangular check and approaches them.

Davos stands in front of Jon but her shocked face is seen nonetheless. And the, Jon’s heart swelled with love, at the infinite fondness her smile contained at seeing him.

“Let’s take a pic, yeah?” One of the photographers shouted and motioned for them to get closer.

 

Unfortunately, Davos stood between them. Sansa’s family lined up beside her and Jon smiled, politely until he felt his cheeks felt numb. Finally, they were dismissed and Davos is the only one that remained, giving another speech of thanks.

Jon climbed down the stairs leading to the backstage. He spots Bran and Rickon and they both brightened up, energetically waving at him. Arya is with her mother, purposefully positioned far from him so the older redhead wouldn’t see Jon approaching her oldest daughter.

A gentle tap on her shoulder and she turns. Jon can’t help but smile when Sansa’s fond beam nearly stretches across her face. “Hi.” He whispers, mindful of being distant but all he wants to do is hold her close, kiss her, and love her the way he would if the gods allowed it.

“Hi.” Sansa breathed. She must’ve missed him too for she reaches out, her small hand wrapping itself on his bicep. “Do-“

“I remember everything. Sansa, I-“

She moves closer and he wonders if she could see the tears he could feel that blurs his vision. “I have found you after lifetimes of not being with you. We did both wrongs and now, we’re in the right again with the gods’ favour. “

“Yo-You mean you forgive me? For hurting you like that?” Jon managed to whisper, his throat tight with emotion. He wish he could crush her with a hug right now but they’re in the back room filled of her family and nosy reporters. So, he settles with trailing his fingers with hers, teasing her with the idea of interlacing their hands if only they could.

“You sweet, adorable idiot, love and hurt goes hand in hand.” Sansa replies with a quiet laugh. She eyes him, being braver than him, she finally intertwines their fingers together and she skims her nose on his cheek. “Would it be too untoward to invite a man to my hotel room?” She wonders.

A jolt travels his spine and settles into a pool of heat in his belly. He chuckles and tucks strands of her hair behind her ear. “It is but I’m liking this new and modern Sansa.”

She giggles, the sound resembling the best kind of music to anyone with ears. It’s an opinion that comes from someone who is utterly enamoured with her. “I just want to cuddle with you, Jon. Sleep has never been better than when I’m with you. Don’t get any other ideas.”

He laughs, bringing their hands closer so he can press intimate butterfly kisses on her knuckles. “You’re absolutely right, sweetling. Why would I want to bed the most enchanting creature that has ever lived?”

“Ah, flattery won’t help you, sir.”

“Sansa?” Catelyn’s sharp voice pierced through the bubble they enveloped themselves in. She eyes them with suspicion but recognition overcomes her initial reaction. “By the gods, is this Jon?” She says in surprise, ignoring the reporter asking her questions.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jon stammered out awkwardly and returning the hug she initiated.

“Oh none of that! My, it’s been ages, yes? I’m so glad to see you. We should have brunch some time!” Mrs Stark gushed, briefly cupping his cheek and grinned at him. “I-I wish to make amends for the past.” She referred to lifetimes ago when she treated him with silence and subtle scorn as a bastard of her husband.

But that was before everything was revealed to them; a blessed curse for him and Catelyn’s daughter.

“There’s nothing to forgive, My-Mrs. Stark.” They all laughed at the slip. “But I’d like to take that offer for brunch at the palace.”

_It feels like we never left Winterfell._

 

 


End file.
